Velvet Undercover (23 page)

She nods and her dark eyes search mine. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

I hurry down the street, trying to remember everything Miss Tickford taught me about surveillance. I'm fairly certain she would have thought to have someone watching the bakery, or at the very least would check for messages. I hurry up the stoop, wondering what I'm going to do if the operative isn't working today. My eyes sweep to where the blue card signal would be if I had a message. I'm relieved that it's not there. I enter the bakery and am immediately assaulted by the sweet scent of cookies, cake, and baking bread. My stomach growls in appreciation. All I've eaten is the rough piece of bread earlier. I breathe a sigh of relief when the man comes out of the back. I'd been worried that the drop site had been compromised, since he wasn't here the last time I came by.

“Good afternoon, Fräulein. May I help you?”

I look around the bakery and smile. “I haven't been here since I was a child. I would love one gingerbread, please.”

He tilts his head to one side and nods. “Of course.”

He reaches back to get the gingerbread and I ask, “Do you still have those little sugar cookies with the soft centers?”

Surprised, he nods. “We're using honey for sweetening now, but they're still tasty.”

“I'll take a dozen.”

When I hand him the money for the cookies and gingerbread, I slip him the message. He takes it without batting an eye and then gives me my change. “Have a nice day, Fräulein.”

I smile and walk out the door on trembling legs. Task one accomplished. Now I just need to see if Miss Tickford takes the bait.

I rejoin Marissa, who's sitting by the window of the café. “I ordered some tea for you,” she says as I take a seat.

“Excellent, because I got some cookies for you.” Marissa and I drink our tea and watch the shop across the street.

An old woman dressed in black with a shawl over her head walks into the bakery, and I nod. “There she is.”

Marissa screws up her face. “I thought you said she was young and pretty.”

“It's a disguise. Not even an old woman would wear a shawl over her head on a nice day like today.”

She straightens. “You're right. Are you sure you're not a seasoned spy?”

My heart swells with the compliment and I smile as I rise up from my seat. “I will be, after this is over.”

“I'll wait a few minutes before I follow,” she says. “What should we do if she gets into a motorcar?”

I remember that Miss Tickford had not one but two motorcars at her disposal the other day. “Then we've lost
her. But I am betting that she is holding my father somewhere close to the drop spot.”

I take a deep breath as I stand at the door of the café.

It's time to put what I learned from Miss Tickford to the test.

Against Miss Tickford.

Protected Source: A secret informant or agent whose identity must remain hidden at all costs.

H
eart in my throat, I wait at the door until the woman in black comes out of the bakery with a brown bag. When she's several stores away, I dart out the door, staying on the opposite side of the street and about ten yards back so she can't spot me in the shop windows. I don't turn to see if Marissa is tailing me yet. I'm too busy watching Miss Tickford without seeming to watch her. She's still hunched like an old woman, but I notice her footsteps speed up as she gets farther away from the bakery. I'm praying it's because she doesn't know she has a tail yet, not because she can't wait to lure me in for the kill.

My heart is racing like a locomotive and sweat trickles down the back of my blouse. My pistol is heavy in my purse and I pray I can use it if and when the time comes.

And I pray my father is all right.

Miss Tickford turns a corner, and as she does so I see her removing the shawl. I dodge traffic as I cross the street,
and then I turn the same corner. For a moment I'm confused because I don't see her, and then I spot the black knit shawl bunched up near some debris. A woman dressed in black and wearing a sheer widow's veil is walking quickly ahead. I know in a flash that it's Miss Tickford. She simply removed the shawl to reveal the widow's veil underneath; the black dress is the same.

She crosses the street quickly and then disappears into a tall brick building. I'm right. She and her men are holding my father near the bakery.

I spot Marissa on the other side of the street. Walking slowly, I point at the building I've just seen Miss Tickford go into. Marissa nods and I scout the outside, first by walking one way up the street and then by walking back down, my eyes scanning the buildings and the pedestrians for anything unusual.

Catching Marissa's attention, I make a motion that I'm going to go around the building to see if there are any exits in the back. She nods. Then I hold up the bag of cookies, hoping she understands my meaning.

My knees are practically knocking together as I round the corner. I'm fairly certain that Miss Tickford has to know that I'm following her by now—doesn't she? I'm not that good.

My only hope is that she doesn't know that Marissa is with me.

I open the door and there's a short set of steps with two doors on either side. Then a dim stairway going up. From
the outside it looked as if the building was several stories tall. My stomach dips with disappointment. I have no idea which flat she has my father in. I look up the stairs, trying to ignore the panic fluttering in my chest.

I can't go knocking from door to door, can I? I start to giggle at the thought and cover my mouth.

Think. Think.

Would she be on the first floor or would she want to put more distance between her prisoner and freedom?

Clutching the paper bag in my hands, I make a decision and climb the stairs, one stair at a time. I reach the first landing and stand, heart pounding, between the two doors. I wait, but when nothing happens, I head up to the third floor.

Every few steps, I drop a piece of cookie.

Well, we are in the land of Hansel and Gretel, after all.

When I reach the third-floor landing, I wait for a moment before moving on. My foot is barely on the first stair when I hear the squeak of an opening door.

I freeze at the click of a pistol being cocked near my head for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

I think I've found her—or she's found me, as the case may be.

“Good evening, Samantha. I've been waiting for you.”

I turn, tension racing across my shoulders. “No need for the gun. We're on the same side.”

She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Really? And which side is that?”

I hear the amusement in her voice and choose my words carefully. “Whichever side will get my father and me out of Berlin alive.”

“Good answer, little one. Unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to accommodate you on that. Now, if you'll please come in.”

She moves away from the door, giving me room to go in, but her gun is still pointed right at my forehead. I break into a sweat as I enter the flat. My eyes dart around the room and I take in the tattered sofa, worn rugs, and battered table. A narrow door opens into what looks like a kitchen, and through the kitchen I see the corner of a bed. It's a long, connecting flat where each room opens into the next like a chain of railway cars. Then I spot my father tied to a kitchen chair in the corner of the room, a gag around his mouth. His shoulders are slumped and his eyes regard me sadly. I know he hoped more than anything in the world that I wouldn't show up here.

“Father!” I rush across the room and throw my arms around him, not caring if Miss Tickford is pointing a gun at us. I untie the gag.

“Water,” he says, and my heart breaks at the sight of his dry lips.

I glare at Miss Tickford, who shrugs. “Bernard, get our guest a glass of water.”

Remembering her love of poison, I hurry to watch as Bernard, one of the beefy men who took my father, runs water from the tap into a glass and hands it to me. I hurry it back
to my father, conscious of Miss Tickford's eyes on me. I hold it to my father's lips and he drinks deeply.

“We waited a long time for you to give us the signal,” she says accusingly. “I thought we had a plan.”

“You know what they say about that,” I say. “‘The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men . . .' Miss Baum was entertaining a male visitor in her room until late.”

I hold my breath as I lie, hoping she'll believe it.

She doesn't.

“Then where is she now?” Miss Tickford demands.

“I have her tied up in an inn over on the Kochstraße.”

Her eyes narrow and I meet them, willing myself not to look away or flinch.

“What do you want?”

“What are the chances of you giving me my father for Miss Baum?” I ask. I need to buy some time.

She grins. “Why would you want a traitor like that? A man who betrayed not only his country but his very family.”

“My daughter will never believe that,” my father says, and I'm gratified that his voice seems stronger. “No matter how you've misrepresented the truth or woven your deceit, she will have figured it out already, for she is far, far smarter than you, in your arrogance, will have given her credit for.”

“It doesn't matter what she believes, or what she thinks she knows,” Miss Tickford says. “I have the gun.” She waves it at us and my throat tightens.

“That's all right,” I say. “I have the formula.”

My father stills. “Sam,” he warns. I lay a hand on his shoulder.

Her eyes gleam at me and I can't believe that I actually thought that she cared for me. I know now that she isn't ever going to buy that I'm willing to hand over Marissa for my father, but she might just want the formula badly enough. . . .

I take a deep breath and try to sound confident. “So you want both my father and Miss Baum. That's rather selfish of you. And now that we've established that my father isn't a traitor, it follows logically that
you
are—you and your German thugs. So why did you betray your country, Miss Tickford? Why do you want the formula so badly?”

Miss Tickford stares at me, her green eyes icy.

“I'd been warned about her,” my father tells me. “I received a brief memo several weeks ago that one Leticia Tickford had gone rogue and all agents in LDB and MI6 should be cautious. She used her clearance and her credentials at MI6 to set this whole thing in motion. Her objective? Blow a hole in our intelligence network and kill as many agents as possible while doing it.”

“It's funny that your daughter would call me the traitor. Ha!” Miss Tickford's mouth is tight as she spews out her venom. “You and the rest of Military Intelligence are nothing short of murderers and you need to be stopped. What's really tragic is how many dead agents you and others like you are responsible for and that no one knows about. No one will ever know, because, like the cowards you are, you hide behind secrecy.”

My mind is spinning as I look from Miss Tickford to my father. Why would Miss Tickford want to kill agents? Why would she call them murderers? I must get my father's hands undone. At any moment Marissa is going to create a distraction and my father will be vulnerable tied to the chair.

I stand next to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other clutching my handbag, which still contains the gun, useless as it is with my father tied up.

“But you're a spy,” I say to her, racking my brain for a way out of this. “Why would you want to kill other agents?” My stomach tightens as I remember the last time I saw Miss Tickford out of control. “Lawrence,” I breathe. “This is about Lawrence.”

Her mouth tightens and I know I'm on to something. “You blame La Dame Blanche and MI6 for Lawrence's death.”

Her eyes harden. “Lawrence was too good and kind to be a spy. They should never have recruited him. And how many others are rotting in prisons because France and England need their information? Someone needs to stop them—needs to stop them all!”

Her lips tremble and I hold my breath as the pistol shakes in her hand.

A thought hits me so hard I almost double up. “Lillian. You killed Lillian. She wasn't even an agent.”

“That's not my fault,” she said sharply. “You're the one who told me she was Velvet. I confronted her, and when I realized your mistake, I had to get rid of her.”

I clutch the back of my father's chair for support. “You
knew she wasn't involved and you still killed her?”

Miss Tickford twitches a shoulder. “She was considering leaving Germany anyway. I just hastened her departure.”

“So you murdered her.” Another thought hits me. “You killed Colonel Landau, the French LDB liaison who knew Velvet's identity, didn't you. The one who overdosed on laudanum.”

“Yes.” Her eyes gleam as if she's proud of her work. “And that Monsieur Elliot you were so fond of.”

I suck in a breath, remembering that gruff, kindly, brilliant old man. “You're deranged!” I burst out.

“England is going to pay even more when the Germans use the chemical weaponry on them. And when I sell the formula, I'll be rich enough to disappear to some South American beach somewhere and read about all of you killing one another off.”

“But you have money,” I say. “The apartment alone . . .”

She shakes her head. “Once the war is over, it will be sold for taxes owed. All of it, everything that has been in my family for years, will be gone.” She suddenly strides toward me, the barrel of her gun seeming to grow larger and larger until it almost touches my forehead. But then she switches tactics and presses it against my father's temple instead.

“You and your father are expendable, little one. But I must have that formula. Where is Marissa Baum? I'll shoot him. You know I will.” Her voice becomes more and more hysterical and my heart pounds in my ears. Now would be a
really
good time for a distraction.

I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of a pistol shot. Instead, there's a faint hammering outside and then screaming. Miss Tickford freezes and Bernard comes out into the front room carrying a weapon.

When the hammering reaches our door, Miss Tickford steps quickly behind my father, with the gun held against his back. “Don't get any ideas,” she whispers.

Bernard opens the door and a young boy screams “Fire!” at the top of his lungs. The boy races down the staircase as thick, acrid smoke wafts through the hallway. Tenants push and shove their way downstairs, adding to the chaos.

Marissa started a fire?

My God, I hope no one gets trapped in it.

Miss Tickford curses and then bends to untie my father. “Bernard, get the girl.” She leans toward me, her face so close that I feel her breath. She speaks very slowly, and every word sends a shiver up my spine. “One wrong move and I'll shoot his legs out from underneath him and let him burn to death. Do you understand?”

I nod.

Bernard moves toward me, but I step out of reach. “She has my father,” I tell him. “I'm not going to try anything.”

It's a strange procession that goes down the three flights of stairs. First myself, then Bernard, then my father followed by Miss Tickford. While others—mothers carrying small children, old men with canes, and children—rush past us, we're slow and measured in our movements. My heartbeat sounds like the ocean in my ears and I feel as if I'm walking
in a dream. This can't be real.

But it is. Terrifyingly, frighteningly real.

This has to work
, I pray. It just has to. We're only going to get one chance at this.

Furtively, I reach into my handbag and pull out the pistol. I shove it into my coat pocket, taking care to keep it out of Bernard's sight. Continuing downstairs, I place my finger on the trigger.

When we reach the exit, we're instantly surrounded by a crowd of people, and the clanging of a fire engine sounds in the distance. The streets are chaotic, noise and screaming everywhere as thick black smoke billows from the building. People are hanging out of the windows of the surrounding buildings, enjoying the spectacle from the safety of their own apartments.

A couple of German policemen try unsuccessfully to direct people away from the burning building and I keep an eye on them as I frantically look around for Marissa. Alerting the authorities to our presence would be disastrous, no matter how badly I want to escape Miss Tickford.

More people, choking and coughing, spill out of the building as Miss Tickford leads us through the throng. Fear clogs my throat; I know she's going to take us away from the relative safety of the crowd.
Where's Marissa?
My instincts, the ones I'm just now learning to trust, are screaming at me.